Episode 6: Hunger

Mimi and Neffi

One of my favorite shows as a child was Good Times. My siblings, cousins and I watched it religiously. We laughed at J.J.’s silliness, fawned over Thelma’s beauty and cringed when James got angry. We celebrated along with the Evans family in the summer of 1986 as we watched a repeat of the series finale. The Evans had finally made it and were moving out of the ghetto. Oddly enough, so were we. Punch had found and rented a house and we were getting out of Lincoln Village, which over the years had become a den of iniquity. An influx of drugs and crime had taken over what was once a very family-oriented community. We were excited as we celebrated and cheered along with J.J. and the gang.

Our new house was far from the mansion we imagined it to be however. In Lincoln Village, 7 of us (and from time to time as many as 3 more) lived in a two-story, 4 bedroom townhouse-style apartment. Upstairs, the “big room” as it was called, was the boys’ room and we practically lived there. Mimi and Nefateri had their own room. As did Punch’s youngest (yet adult) daughter who lived with us. Downstairs, Punch had her own room. In our new house however, things were much different. The house was small- formally a two-bedroom house. We turned a common area into a 3rd bedroom. Now, not only did I have to share this room with my two sisters, but I also had to share a bed with my cousin. The celebration ended rather abruptly though it was still better than being in Lincoln Village.

Over the years, I had grown pretty close to one of Punch’s sons. I called him my “Uncle”. He was hard working and helped take care of things around the house. He was also really cool. He always had the coolest cars and clothes and a great sense of humor. Often he would come by and rough me and my boy cousins up, or slip us some pocket change to by freezer cups from Ms. Betty Joe’s candy store. When my boy cousins’ dad would come take them for the summers or on weekends he would often leave me behind. Uncle saw this and would take extra care to make sure I was ok. He’d come by and take me to help him wash his car or take me to his house to watch movies or just get away. At the time he had two young daughters, but I think he always wanted a son. I wanted a dad, and so it worked out.

So it was a pleasant surprise for me as I made my way home from the store this particular Sunday morning and saw his car in the yard. I picked up the pace because Uncle always had something funny to say, and maybe today he’d let me take a ride with him.

I felt a rush of heat rise to my face and a shortness of breath when I walked in and saw him on top of my older sister. I didn’t quite know what to make of it. She was crying and frightened. Her head turned to the door where I stood frozen. “Fahamu” she stammered, “Fahamu is standing there”.

Uncle jumped up and made to fix himself up. He walked over to me smiling, yet clearly embarrassed and ushered me out of the house. Once outside, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of bills and said, “Don’t say nothing about this.” He walked to his car and got in as I stood there. I was so confused and shocked. I knew what I had seen was wrong. I felt a lump in my throat and my heart was pounding. I was sad, angry and scared. He drove away but I couldn’t move. What was I to do?

Eventually I went back in the house. My sister’s face was still red, her eyes puffy from crying. She was back to doing the chores she had been left to do while everyone was away at church. I resumed my own. Neither of us said anything to the other. And never spoke about what had happened for many years.

My little sister and I are 11 months apart and we were always really close. She was my best friend and confidante. Now in high school, we would daydream together about getting away, or try to console one another over the latest drama.  It seemed she was joined at the waist to the kitchen sink as there were always dishes to be washed. Often, I would help her. It gave us a chance to talk, plus there were always a LOT of dishes. One night at the sink she confided in me that Uncle had done something to her. She had been spending more and more time with him and his family babysitting his daughters and helping out his wife. Honestly I had become a little jealous because he rarely had time for me these days. She told me that on her last visit, he molested her as he drove her home. As she spoke I felt a great deal of shame. I knew what she was saying was true. But I didn’t want to believe it.  Again, I was torn. I loved my sister and I would do anything for her. But in this situation I didn’t know what to do. So again, I did… and said nothing.

This episode however had a tremendous affect on my sister. Over the next few days all she did was cry. At home and at school. Her friends would come to me for help. “Nefateri is crying again” they would say, hoping I could do something to console her. One day in class she wrote a note to a friend telling what happened. As she attempted to pass the note, her teacher intervened. She read it and immediately took my sister out of the class and reported the incident to the authorities.

ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE.

Uncle was arrested and Punch was furious. Uncle was her boy and she refused to believe my sister’s story. My sister brought me in to corroborate – but again I froze. I didn’t tell about the incident I had seen years before with my older sister. I did say that Nefateri told me that he had molested her. But it fell on deaf ears. If I had known this, Punch challenged, why hadn’t I said or done anything? I was mortified and ashamed. Punch, Uncle and others vehemently denied that anything of the sort could have happened. They persecuted my sister and made her out to be a liar. They even went as far as to subject her to psychiatric treatment saying that she must be crazy like our father.

My sister was never quite the same and the incident left a huge scar on the family. She never showed me any disappointment about how I handled the situation. In fact, when we talked about it, she understood my trepidation. Years later, me and my sisters talked about it and I apologized to the both of them as I felt and still feel a great deal of remorse at my handling of it all. I realize that ultimately, I will have to forgive myself. Today may not be that day. But I have to come to terms with it.

That following year I left to go to college. Shortly before that time, Uncle had started to become sick. He had contracted a very rare disease and within the year he died. I never had a chance to reconcile with him, to express my anger or to express my love to him for treating me like a son when no one else did. The man in me knows that life is never as black and white as we or others tend to make it. But as men we must accept and take ownership of the good and the bad that we do. We must be as willing to take credit for the hurt we cause as much as the help we’ve given.

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